For a fortnight or so all
went well--and then, quite suddenly, without any warning, going, as it
were, to the fountain for water, she found there was no bottom to her
cruse. She went to bed sanguine, she awoke morose. She saw the day with
jaundiced eyes, scorned herself, cried "Liver!" and took medicine. She was
glued to her books all day, returned late to her lodging, and found
herself in tears. She discovered a tenderness, a yearning; she lay awake
dreaming of her childhood, of her girlhood, of Vicky, of her father's
knee, of Senhouse, her dear, preposterous friend, whose grey eyes quizzed
while they loved her. Golden days with him--golden nights when she dreamed
over his eager, profuse, interminable letters! All these sweet, seemly
things were dead! Ah, no, not that, else must she die. She cried softly,
and stretched out her arms in the dark to the gentle ghosts that peopled
it. Then, being practical in grain, she jumped up, lit candles, and wrote
deliberately to each of her sisters--finally, after much biting of the
pen, to her father. Before her mood could cool she dressed hastily,
slipped out, and posted her letters. Coming back to bed, she paused in the
act to enter it--one knee upon it.
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